by Bill Baldwin
“FREEZE, Mister!” Brim commanded, stopping himself short in the trampled snow. “And don't drop the broom!” Barbousse froze in apparent rigor mortis, began to topple toward the water, caught himself again, and came to an uneasy rest. Calmly as possible, Brim walked past and onto the gangway, only to stop once more in his tracks. Carefully, he turned to check on Barbousse; the man was still standing before the gangway, broom in hand at parade rest. “Carry on,” he ordered smartly, then hurried up the steep incline toward the ship.
Stepping over a high sill, he drew the hatch closed and breathed deeply of starship odors: the too-fresh redolence of ozone and rank stench of electronics mixed with odors of hot metal and scorched sealants. Food. Bodies. And on every starship in the Fleet, an unmistakable scent of polish. He chuckled as he made his way along the short companionway — everything military smelled of polish. Before him, a petty officer glared at her hovering display. Her desk plate read, “Kristoba Maldive, Quartermaster.”
“All right, Barbousse,” Maldive growled without looking up. “What now?”
“Well,” Brim said, “you might start by signing me in…
Maldive wrinkled a large, thin nose and continued to stare into the display. “Sign you what?” she demanded, fingers flying on a nearby control panel. Hues and patterns in the globe shifted subtly (Brim politely avoided reading any of them). “What in Universe do you mean by th…?” she continued, then stopped in midword when her narrow-set eyes strayed as far as Brim's cloak and the sublieutenant's insignia on the left shoulder. “Oh, Universe,” she grimaced quietly. “Sorry, sir; I never expected anyone out so early.” She stared down at the desk. “We don't often get a chance to sleep so long. And the skimmers…
“It's all right,” Brim interrupted. “I walked.”
Maldive looked up again. “Yes, sir,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “I see you certainly did.” She inserted Brim's card in a reader, then peered at the display. More soft hues and patterns filled the globe. “Everything seems in order, sir,” she said. From her desk she hefted an old-fashioned book, elegantly bound in polished red fabric with gold trim. Truculent's emblem of a charging bull Hilaago (deadly predator from the planet Ju'ggo-3 in the Blim Commonwealth), was engraved in its front cover. “Sign here, sir,” she grunted, opening the heavy book on the desktop facing Brim. “We'll have you aboard in no time at all.”
Brim bent to the book and signed full fingerprints of both hands. “Well,” he asked with a smile, “how was that?”
“I'd bet you're in, sir,” the Quartermaster said, returning the smile. “Can you find your way to the wardroom? It's on the same deck level. We'll need a few cycles to make up your cabin. “
“I'll find it,” Brim said with more confidence than he actually felt. He'd been at pains to learn the starship's layout in the Academy library back on Avalon, but now everything looked unfamiliar and confusing.
“We'll come for you there when your cabin's ready,” Maldive promised. “And you can leave that traveling case with me, too.”
Brim nodded thanks and shook his head. What a difference the tiny device on his left shoulder made! Having someone else look after his luggage was a far cry from life on the ore carriers at home. Of course, there he would have been counted fortunate indeed to have any baggage at all — aside from what he wore on his back or could carry in a pocket.
Along the companionway, he paused at a gleaming metal plate set with old-fashioned rivets. “I.F.S. TRUCULENT,” it read, “JOB 21358 ELEANDOR BESTIENNE YARD 228/51988.” The plaque might have been polished every metacycle on the metacycle from its looks — and by persons who cared considerably for the ship. A fine portent, he decided, and gave it a few good strokes of his own with a sleeve. He smiled. Something like that might even bring good luck.
Finding the wardroom proved easier than he expected — he was lost only twice. He opened the door almost bashfully — officers' country had been strictly off limits as recently as six days ago. With sincere relief, he discovered it was unoccupied and stepped over the high sill. A large picture of Emperor Greyffin IV, “Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens,” adorned the forward bulkhead (identical poses stared beatifically from every available wall in the Empire). Battered recliners lolled here and there along a narrow deck dominated by a massive carved table with ten matching chairs. Eight places were set at the table; two additional chairs faced only polished wood.
Beyond the table, a window opened through the aft bulkhead into a tiny, dark pantry. From within this space, two incredibly rheumy eyes peered at him from atop a thin nose, which ended in a bushy white mustache. This time, it was Brim's turn for surprise. He jumped. “Er, good morning,” he said.
“It certainly does, sir,” the face stated with conviction.
“Pardon?”
“But then I understand all you young fellers love snow.”
Brim was just opening his mouth again when he was interrupted by the appearance of a Great Sodeskayan Bear with engineering blazes on the high collar of his Fleet Cloak. The newcomer — a full lieutenant — peered through the door, appeared to immediately grasp the situation, and wiggled long, unruly whiskers. “Lieutenant Brim?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Brim answered. “Ah…?” He inclined his head toward the pantry door.
The Bear smiled. “Oh, that's Chief Steward Grimsby,” he explained. “He's all right; he just doesn't listen anymore.”
“Doesn't listen, sir?”
“Well, not in the half year since I signed on he hasn't.”
Brim nodded, more in capitulation than anything else.
“Don't let him bother you, friend,” the Bear said. “He seems to anticipate most everything we require. Anything else, we get for ourselves.”
“I, ah, see, sir.”
The Bear grinned, exposing long, polished fangs, each with the tiny jeweled inlay all fashionable Bears seemed to consider indispensable. “'Sir' is not really my name,” he said, extending a large furry hand. “On the Mother Planets, I am called Nikolas Yanuar Ursis, but you should call me 'Nik,' eh?”
Brim gripped his hand. “Nik it is,” he replied. “And you seem to know mine's Wilf Brim, Wilf Ansor Brim, that is.”
“Kristoba told me you were here,” Ursis said, drawing a battered Sodeskayan Zempa pipe from a pocket of his expensive-looking tunic. Six strong fingers delicately charged its bowl from a flat leather case, and he puffed vigorously until the hogge'poa glowed warmly, filling the wardroom with its sweet, heavy fragrance — object of centuries' aggravated complaint by suffering human crewmates all over the Universe. “You don't mind, do you?” Ursis asked, settling into one of the less seedy recliners.
Brim smiled and shook his head. Hogge'poa never especially bothered him. Nobody seriously expected the Bears to stop anyway, but the tolerance had less to do with altruism than with recognition of the extraordinary genius by which Bears engineered HyperSpace Drive systems, and besides, female Bears simply loved the smell of it.
“Fresh from the Academy, eh?” Ursis asked, crossing his legs comfortably. His high boots were perfectly polished, as if he expected an imminent inspection.
“I only graduated last week,” Brim admitted.
“Then you came in from Avalon on Amphitrite, didn't you?”
Brim pursed his lips and nodded. Indeed, he had arrived in the big converted liner only the night before. “Convoy CXY98,” he explained.
“Word has it we lost heavily in that one,” the Bear said.
“More than half the cargo vessels,” Brim asserted. “Twelve, I think.”
“And most of the escorts,” the Bear stated.
Brim nodded again. The. Eorean Complex boasted an accurate rumor mill. “I watched old Obstinate blow up no more than a c'lenyt off our port bow,” Brim said.
“No survivors you could see?”
“I can't imagine anything living through that blast,” Brim answered. “All four Drive chamb
ers seemed to blow at the same time; there wasn't even much wreckage.”
Ursis got out of the recliner thoughtfully. Standing, he was average for a Sodeskayan native: powerfully barrel chested and slightly taller than the three irals Brim claimed for himself. Like other Bears, he had short pointed ears and a short muzzle for natural heat retention on the cold planets of his origin. He looked Brim in the eye. “Two cousins,” he pronounced slowly. “Voof.”
“I'm sorry,” Brim said lamely.
“So am I,” Ursis said with a faraway look in his close-set predator's eyes. “But then Hagsdoffs always gore the hairiest oxen first, don't they?”
“Pardon?”
“An old saying from the Mother Planets,” Ursis explained. “And it is I who ought to be sorry for unloading troubles on you.” He put a hand on Brim's arm. “Your people suffered with mine in the first raids.”
Brim bit his lip.
“Despots like Nergol Triannic strike Bears and men alike,” Ursis said. “Our work is to finish him — and his thrice-damned League — eh?” He puffed thoughtfully on his Zempa pipe. “Some news of your coming preceded you, Carescrian. Many of us have looked forward to your arrival with great interest.”
Brim raised an eyebrow.
“Soon, my new friend, we will talk of many things,” the Bear said. “But for now, the Drive demands my presence. And I am certain you will be delighted to see your cabin, which at last seems to be ready.” He nodded toward the door.
Brim turned. A starman waited outside in the companionway.
“This way, please, Lieutenant,” the young woman said.
“Later...” Ursis declared, leading the way through the door.
Within a few cycles, Brim stood proudly in a tiny stateroom, the first in his memory he would not share with someone else. Luxury like this was a far cry indeed from Carescria and her ore trade, and he had paid dearly to win it. For the moment at least, all seemed worth the price.
* * * *
He had only just stowed his traveling case beneath the narrow bunk when he noticed a message frame that had materialized on the inside of his door.
“Yes?”
“Captain's compliments,” the frame said. “And interviews will begin in her office at standard 0975.”
Glancing at his timepiece, Brim saw he had more than three metacycles to wait. “Very well,” he answered, then settled back on his bunk as the indicator faded. Clearly, he was one of very few early risers aboard Truculent, at least when she was in port.
Well before standard 0975, Brim climbed two levels to the aft end of the bridge tower. Near the ladder, a door was engraved simply “CAPTAIN,” below which removable adhesive stickers spelled out “R.G. Collingswood, Lt. Commander, I.F.” While he waited, he was joined by a second sublieutenant with Helmsman's blazes on his collar. The newcomer was pink and chubby and had an uneasy look about him. His belt divided an expensive-looking tunic into two rolls which flubbered up and down as he hurried. “I thought I'd never find the Captain in this awful warren,” he grumped in a high-pitched voice. “What time is it anyhow?”
“If you're scheduled at standard 0975, you've made it,” Brim assured him, checking his own timepiece. “We have nearly a cycle to go.”
“No little wonder,” the man said, panting, then suddenly looked at Brim with something like recognition. “You're not that Carescrian sublieutenant, are you?” he asked.
“I am,” Brim asserted, immediately on the defensive.
The other grunted. “Well, you certainly don't look odd,” he observed.
From bitter experience, Brim knew Imperials often had no idea they were giving offense; and now was not the time to teach this one. “Ready?” he asked evenly.
“As I'll ever be, I suppose.”
Brim rapped firmly.
“It's open,” a voice called from inside.
Brim pushed the latch plate.
Inside, with her back to the door, Lieutenant Commander, I.F. Collingswood stared intently at a display. Soft chords of stately, unfamiliar music beguiled Brim's ears from the background. “Come in,” she urged without turning around. “I shall be finished momentarily.”
Brim led the way, then stood uncomfortably in the soft, haunting music until she cleared the display and swiveled her chair, looking first at one and then the other. She had a long, patrician nose, hazel eyes, and soft chestnut curls. Graceful fingers interlaced on her lap.
“Well?” she asked.
“SubLieutenant Wilf Ansor Brim reporting for duty aboard I.F.S. Truculent, ma'am,” Brim said with as steady a voice as he could muster. In the following silence, he realized he was very nearly terrified. He also noticed he was not the only one — his overweight counterpart hadn't even opened his mouth. Still in silence, he offered his orders card, carefully turning it for insertion in a reader.
Collingswood read the printed name, then — accepting the other's without a glance — placed both behind her on the desk. She frowned. “So you're Brim?” she asked inƒ a quiet mezzo.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“That makes you Theada,” she said to the other.
“J-Jubal Windroff Theada the Third,” he said, “from Avalon.”
“Yes,” Collingswood said with a frown. “At one time, I knew your father.” Silent for a moment, she smiled distantly, then went on. “I suppose both of you are fresh from Helmsman's training,” she said.
Brim nodded. “Yes, ma'am,” he said again. The other continued his silence.
A tiny smile escaped Collingswood's thin mouth. “Ready to take old Truculent into space from the command seat, then?” she joked.
“I'd gladly settle for any seat up there, ma'am,” Brim said with a grin. For the first time, it occurred to him the woman was dressed in a threadbare sweater and short skirt that revealed slim legs and soft, well-worn boots. Somehow, even at her leisure, she looked every inch a captain.
“You are the one who piloted those horrible ore carriers, aren't you?” she asked.
“Yes, ma'am,” Brim answered, again braced for the inevitable insult.
“Hmm,” she mused, “I understand they require some rather extraordinary flying.”
Brim felt his face flush and kept an embarrassed silence.
Collingswood smiled again. “You'll show us your talent soon enough, Lieutenant.” she said. “And you, Lieutenant Theada. Shall I put you in the command seat straight off?”
“W-Well, Captain,” Theada stammered, “I only h-have about three hundred metacycles at the controls… and some simulator time. I don't know if I'm actually ready f-for the left seat right away “
“You'll build your metacycles quickly in Truculent,” Collingswood interrupted with just the shadow of a frown. Then her neutral smile returned. “Lieutenant Amherst will expect you to check in with him; he's our number one. And of course you must see Lieutenant Gallsworthy when he returns to the ship. He's chief Helmsman — you report to him.” Abruptly, she smiled, then swiveled back to the display. “Welcome aboard, both of you,” she said in dismissal.
Brim led the way out the door. Just as he stepped over the sill, Collingswood turned his way again. “By the by, Lieutenant Brim,” she said, looking past Theada. “When you address me, it's 'Captain,' not 'ma'am.'“ She smiled with a warmth Brim could actually feel. “Nothing to worry about,” she added. “I thought you'd want to know.”
When Theada disappeared along the companionway without uttering another word, Brim decided his next move should be to report to Truculent's first lieutenant. He tracked the man down in the chart house portion of the bridge at work before a small disorderly table that projected one of the ship's ubiquitous display globes. “Lieutenant Amherst?” Brim inquired politely, eyeing a richly lined Fleet Cape carelessly heaped on a nearby recliner.
“Never forget it,” Amherst growled coldly as he turned from his display. His were the same aristocratic features as Collingswood's, only strongly masculine. He had a thin, straight nose with flaring nostrils, two nar
row mustaches, a lipless slit for a mouth, and wavy auburn hair. It was the eyes, however, that set him apart from Collingswood. While hers greeted the world with easygoing intellect, Amherst's revealed the quick, watchful manner of a true martinet. “You certainly took your time reporting, didn't you?” he sniffed, ignoring Brim's original question.
“I was with Captain Collingswood, sir,” Brim explained.
“Plead your rationalizations only when I ask,” he sneered. “Lieutenant Theada came to see me straight off — as befits a proper Imperial officer.” He swiveled his chair and smoothed his blue-braided breeches where they became close fitting just below the knees. Elegant knee-high boots exuded the soft luxury of expensive ophet leather (which Brim had seen before only in pictures). “Colonials always have so much to learn about proper deportment,” he sighed, then peered along his nose at Brim. “You Carescrians will probably prove the worst of all.”
Brim held his temper — and his tongue. After the Helmsman's Academy, Amherst's manner was all too familiar.
“Well?” the other demanded suddenly. “What have you to say for yourself?” .
“I was with the Captain,” Brim repeated, “at her request.”
“You'll soon learn to be smart with me, Carescrian,” Amherst snapped, eyes flashing with quick anger.
“I meant no insult, sir,” Brim stated evenly, still under relatively firm control.
Amherst glared coldly. “I shall be the judge of your pitiful insults, SubLieutenant.” He joined long fingers at the tips, contemplated the roofed structure they formed while Brim stewed in uncomfortable silence. “I believe I shall do the whole crew a favor,” he said presently, looking Brim in the eye for the first time. “The sooner your kind display your true abilities, the sooner we can replace you with your betters.” Abruptly, he turned to his display. “Imagine, “ he muttered to no one in particular, “a Carescrian with a cabin of his own!” He shook his head and moved long, pink fingers over the control panel. “We are scheduled out of here the morning after next,” he chortled. “And you are now posted as co-Helmsman for the takeoff. Old Gallsworthy ought to be in a spectacular mood after another two nights' gaming. He'll make short work of your no-account talent.”